To Be Eternal
by Shawtymanex42
Summary: This fanfic is dedicated to my amazing friend Maddy! Kyle is in a psyche ward and he writes to an imaginary person named Frank, who is kind of like a diary. I didn't want to label Kyle with a certain disorder, I really want to leave it up to you guys. You have no idea how theraputic this was to write! Rated M for angst. Slight Kyman, but not a lot... Hope you enjoy!


Kyle's POV

Dear nobody?

This is so weird. Even for me. I have no idea what to say. Clare wasn't too clear on that. Clare's the lady who runs the group therapy I have to go to. There's twelve of us and we sit in this room that has pictures of kids that are supposed to resemble us, though they remind me of cadavers. Commercials for a freak show or something like that. Grotesque, gnarled, deformed. Garish smiles, polished bones, gleaming, and organs glistening and squirming like they're still alive.

I hope I'm not like those kids on the wall. Just like I hope I'm not like those kids who talk about their problems in person, with medicated eyes and harsh voices. Do I look like that? Sound like that?. Clare says in my report that I'm unresponsive and dismissive. Shy and stubborn. But I'm getting there slowly. I guess this is a marathon not a sprint. Like many things.

I want to close my eyes sometimes and when I decide it's time to wake up I'll be in my own room, with the snowy view, thick sheets and people waiting for me. As far as I'm concerned, the only thing that's similar between me and those other kids is that we all have wristbands that claim we belong here and files stored somewhere, with their details watered down and out of date. I guess we're bound together in that sense but I don't think I'm as troubled as them, maybe we're all just as lonely and scared.

Clare said that we all have to write letters to ourselves and we can write whatever we want, to express ourselves freely and vent whatever emotions we're feeling. I said that it was a like a diary, but apparently it's not. I don't think I'll write anymore letters. No offense, but I think it's a waste of time. I'd rather go down to that lifeless social room and watch TV, kick some manic depressive kids asses at pool or basketball, hell, I'd rather jerk off and fall asleep than pretend to care.

Kyle

~x~

Dear Frank

I went to my group therapy session today and apparently everybody has given a name to the imaginary person they're writing to. So I've decided to call you Frank. And yes, I know I said that I wasn't going to write anymore, and believe me, I'm not the type of person who's fickle with their decisions, but I feel bored and there's nothing to do. Can't you tell how awesome I am at lying?.

But seriously, there is a limited amount of activities that would spark the interest of a seventeen year old boy in this dump. Sometimes there are gaping holes in my regimental routine. If I could look back on the little eight year old me, who along with his noirette best friend, watched pebbles skim across a calm pond lake and longed for a life of normalcy, I'd tell them to be careful what they wish for. Routine and medicated, clinical peace and quiet isn't all it's cracked up to be. The feeling of being in here is hard to explain Frank, and since you're a figment of my wearing imagination, I doubt you've got a hefty amount of memories and experiences. Unlike me. But it's kinda like being under house arrest while freedom gnaws viciously at the cuffs around your ankles and wrists, but it doesn't try hard enough, and you're too tired to care. My friends lives, the plight of the world, the dates on a calendar, the hands on a clock, the seasons... It all seems like a drunken memory, an aftertaste, a postcard. Wish You Were Here! Written in a mocking, bitter tone dripping with malice.

Sometimes I crave amnesia, to forget who I was, just so I don't have memories clawing into my dreams and making life that much harder. I wish time would pick a speed I was comfortable with. Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter. A pattern, a cycle that gives me a headache. Empty phrases and reflections that make no difference to me, that are meaningless.

I get up at 7:30, wake up to the cacophony of that familiar dream. I don't know why I respond to it so much, I just do. Then I get out of bed, brush my teeth, have a shower, get dressed and go to the cafeteria that's barely full. I don't bother sitting down with anybody. I don't have any friends here because making a connection with anybody is dangerous, it means that subconsciously you think your stay is permanent. This is not good. I grab one of those rip off, obnoxious cereal bars and a bottle of what is, put simply, a piss poor excuse for orange juice. The nurses like me so they let me walk around the gardens, but they warn me about going too far. I know the drill ladies, I dare venture beyond the looming gates and silent intercom otherwise it's all hands on deck and the bad guys will be after me. I don't like walking by the main doors anyway, it makes me feel sad and homesick.

It snows here, not as much as it does back home, but in January there was this huge fucking blizzard and when I woke up the next morning, everything was white and buried. Everything was erased. It made a lump rise in my throat, thinking of home. It reminded me of South Park. I didn't bring myself to go outside that day, throwing snowballs with the others or making snowmen. I didn't go on my usual after breakfast walk. Too many memories. It made me angrier and angrier every time some stupid twerp or deluded counselor came up to me and said

"C'mon Kyle! Don't you wanna enjoy the snow while you can?"

I lied and mumbled coldly "I don't like snow."

"But you used to live up in the mountains didn't you? South Park, right? There's tons of snow up there! I bet this is nothing compared to that!"

They were right about the last part. There's no place like home. I refuse to believe this building could ever be home.

After my walk, I wait until 10 for my therapy. It's not like a cliche, lying down on a sofa while some snooty guy with glasses mumbles and constantly takes notes. You sit down, while the guy fires the same old questions at you, you sometimes catch yourself repeating things, but you get used to it. I don't like how they listen and mutate everything I say. Sometimes I wish I could scream. Sometimes I wish I could block their ears and I could say everything I really want to say. I haven't reached the stage where I can be brutally honest. I'm trying to stop that from happening.

While I wait for my therapy however, I kill time by listening to my iPod or scratching my skin until it bleeds. Though sometimes, when the social room is deserted (this happens a lot more than you would think) I catch Terrance & Philip reruns on CBC or White Trash and In Trouble. After therapy, I go straight to the nurse for my "daily check up" this is basically where they interrogate you about medication. They grill you especially hard if you've had a recent episode and there are discussions with the doctors about whether your dosage needs to be altered, or whether to add another scary sounding drug to the list of countless others. I've only had two "episodes" since I've been here. The first one was during my first week and I woke up screaming due to a night terror. I tried to explain that I was scared, what the dream was, how I needed my mom and dad, Stan, anybody to talk to me. The words just foamed up in my mouth and slid down into my battered, worn out trachea as I desperately struggled in the nurses strong grip and some arrogant, no good doctor murmured my name wrong. I hated the way he said it. Like he knew me, like he had any kind of right to say it in the first place. The second episode was three months ago when I tried to jump off the roof. I had learned my lesson by then. I was silent and passive in the panicked arms of those strangers who led me away from my possible death. The funny thing is I probably would've done it if weren't for some tattling schizophrenic guy that I stupidly thought I could trust. First rule of hospital 101: Never tell anybody anything. Ever.

My group therapy is at 4 and lasts for an hour and a half. I prefer group therapy, listening to other people's issues, problems and stories distracts me from my own. Besides, I don't think I'm as interesting as them. Then again, they wouldn't know. They talk openly about their dysfunctional home lives, sickening abuse from haunting strangers, bullying and the wrong paths they have taken in their such short lives. Yet I never talk about my life. My family and friends. Granted, I did admit that I was from South Park AKA The craziest town in America, so that tells them pretty much everything they need to know. I'd rather leave it that. Though Clare clearly doesn't think that one confession is good enough, pushy bitch.

I'm free for the remainder of the day. I go to the vending machines in the lobby and get a soda and some candy bars and maybe I'll pick up an information pamphlet from the front desk. I like reading up on mental disorders, I think it's interesting.

Visitors are allowed on the weekends. Though my parents can't come all the time. Ike hardly visits at all, I think this whole circus scares and confuses him. He's only eleven years old after all. The first time he came he didn't talk or look at me and that was enough to make me cry myself to sleep. I cry a lot now. More than I ever have, actually. Well, I've got nothing else to do...

I prefer it when Stan, Cartman and Kenny visit me. Not that I don't like seeing my parents, but the fact that my mom always has tears in her eyes and my dad is constantly trying to push through the hurt, makes me feel way too uncomfortable and guilty. Stan cried the first time he visited, Cartman couldn't look at me and Kenny gave up on trying to break the tension. But things eventually got better and everything seemed like old times. They told me about school, town, parties they had been to, football games, colleges, girls, anecdotes that seemed to be missing me. An anchor of spite and envy tugged at the hollow pit in my chest. Every departure was bittersweet. So much that the thought makes my mouth taste sour.

So there it is. My day to day. Try not to envy me too much Frank.

Kyle

~x~

Dear Frank

I never thought I'd admit this, but I'm so fucking relieved to be writing to you right now. Seriously, I couldn't get out of that damn room fast enough. Away from Clare and those posters and those kids... I hate them all. I want to go home. I miss my mom and dad and my brother. I miss my street and my TV and my house and my friends. I hate it here. I hate it here. I hate it here. I FUCKING DESPISE THIS PLACE!

A little background would be useful, right?. Sorry Frank. Anyway, I walk in, nod half heartedly at those desperate, soulless eyes who have suddenly taken an interest in me. I sit down on the same old, uncomfortable plastic chair and refuse to take my earphones out. I mean, I need something to drown all this bullshit out, right?. Clare glares at me disapprovingly, so I scowl and do as I'm told. I'm starting to think my day can't get any worse... my one on one therapy has given me a headache and the nurses are refusing to give me aspirin, the nurse I visit for my routine check up had to call in a doctor to talk to me about possibly increasing the dosage of one of the anti-depressants I'm on. Fine with me Doc, I eat those damn things like candy anyway... And now, to make things worse, hypocritical, self righteous, everything-that-comes-out-of-my-mouth-is-pure-crap Clare is informing us that todays activity is to make a collage about our family!. It's times like these I wish I owned some form of weaponry Frank... if not to kill myself then certainly to kill her.

We sat at these desks and were given glue, glitter, thick poster paper, magazines to collect pictures from and scissors (this wasn't the case for some people, Clare had to cut their shit out for them because they weren't trusted to do it themselves. I find that sad. I mean, I sometimes feel like a kid because I'm treated so gingerly and becoming increasingly dependent, but not to the extent that some kids are in this place... I sometimes think if they were offered some trust and compromise it would help them a lot fucking more than just pushing them on another pill...).

I've learnt to forget a lot of things. So nostalgia is very unwelcome, especially in circumstances like this. And getting my fingertips sticky from harsh smelling glue and letting my dull green eyes get absorbed by primary colours that blare loudly, meshing with the discordant orchestra in my head brings back too many memories. I'm nine years old, in that blue classroom, the four of us are huddled in the corner on a small table, littered with half finished projects, we're making a poster on the pioneers, World War II, Abraham Lincoln... I don't know, but it's the usual elementary school stuff. The disposable things that don't interest you at all when you're that young. Kids are so eager to live their lives in the present that the past and the future are just as irrelevant as each other. Kenny is silently obsessing over the paper people he has effortlessly fashioned, making them dance and shuffle along our table, Cartman's throwing pieces of scrap paper at me while I multi-task ripping on him and writing down the script for our speech. Well, really I'm just copying out of a textbook. Stan is focusing on getting the lettering right on our huge poster. Nice, bold writing that makes the dull topic seem remotely interesting. The chatter in our classroom starts to creep up. Mr Garrison looks up from his TV Guide and shouts something along the lines of "If you damn kids don't calm down in the next 10 seconds I will not hesitate to throw all your sorry asses into afterschool detention!". Good times. It makes tears sting my eyes, but I won't allow myself to make a scene.

Where do I start? I write my parents name in my neatest handwriting. Sheila and Gerald. Then I write my brother's name. Ike. I found an ad in a magazine for maple syrup, and on the label was a small Canadian flag. I laugh at how stereotypical it all is and place the flag next to Ike's name. I can't help but feel sad. But I grit my teeth.

I decided not to do the rest of my family. We're not that close, my mom gets unbelievably embarrassed about her Jersey roots. She considers it to be "vile" and "trashy". To be honest, I couldn't agree more, my Jersey side has only come out once and it's not pretty. I think my parents are happy to just have my brother and I. Just a small, close unit. Who wouldn't want to disturb that? Except me. I guess I ruined everything.

My poster looks empty though, so I decide to include my friends. Primary colours hook my focus again. Stan is blue. Elusive, calm, cynical, volatile, soft, vulnerable blue. Like an open sky that clutches you tight or a neurotic sea that roars recklessly with unforgiving waves before it morphs into a stubborn calm that refuses to let anger rise to the surface. I cut out a picture of a football, a Denver Broncos t-shirt and one of those plastic Guitar Hero guitars. A thin, paper dolphin jumps over the arch of the glittering, cobalt S.

The block colours break free from their confines and venture out to the horizon. Merging together for my blond miscreant friend. He's very persuasive. Even if he doesn't realise it. Kenny is orange. Optimistic, warm, exciting, happy, passionate orange. Like a sizzling, teasing sunset in a parched desert or the trembling flames of hell that lick your feverish flesh as you eagerly protest. There were no playboys for me to cut up (Kenny would've been very disappointed) so I had to make do with a sexy, oiled up chick in a swimsuit from the cover of Sports Illustrated instead. I hope that makes you happy, Ken. I tried to find a pair of angel wings that I could stick onto my collage, but the best I could get was a dove. It had to do. I also found an ad for Budweiser, so I cut out the picture of the huge, obnoxious beer bottle and stuck that on the paper too.

My eyes feel misty but I bite my lip and force the saltwater down my throat.

Anxiously, I reach for the red paper, that's been staring at me smugly. Cartman is red. Unforgiving, ruthless, loud, obnoxious, dangerous red. Like relentless blood on guilty hands or a poisoned apple that's begging to be touched by painted lips. I cut out a picture of an Xbox and the KFC logo, there was an ad for their new sandwich in one of the magazines, just looking at the damn thing would make your arteries feel clogged. I started to get frustrated when I couldn't find any pictures of Hitler or anything about Nazis at all... In true Cartman fashion, he made me extremely pissed off and irritated and he wasn't even in the room. He would fucking love the fact that he's making me feel like this. I know what you're thinking Frank, I could've just given up on my quest for anything that resembled the Third Reich, but it wouldn't have felt like Cartman without a few swastikas. So I resorted to drawing some myself, I'm pretty good at it, when I was twelve Cartman taught me how to draw them (against my will, by the way). He used to draw them all over his school books and carve them on his bedroom wall with his pocket knife. I smile weakly and I feel nauseous at the thought that Cartman probably would've felt proud of me. In his own smug, annoying way of course. I think about drawing a couple of hearts, affection and love dotted around the page, mixing in with the splatters of aggression and hate. Yeah, that's Cartman and I in a nutshell, I guess. I don't want to think about us right now though.

I received a few weird looks off some kids when I was effortlessly littering the red section of my page with satanic hooked slashes.

In fact, a small voice came behind me and asked "Why are you drawing those?"

I get startled but turn around and face the puzzled look of some pretty blond girl with hollow eyes and bracelets that fool no one cluttering her wrist.

"My friend, he's uh, kind of a neo Nazi." I reply, blushing slightly. The girl doesn't notice. I wish I knew her name, but I have a policy. No friends here.

"Oh" she whispers, furrowing her plucked eyebrows "Cartman? That's a strange name..."

"That's not his first name. It's his last name." I sigh, wishing she would go away. This is the most I've talked to anybody my own age in two weeks.

"Well, what's his first name?" Why does she keep pressing me for answers?. I'm not exaggerating or anything, but I sometimes feel like I'm constantly being interrogated.

"Eric" I reply. God, that feels so weird to say. Foreign. Eric, Eric, Eric...

"That's a nice name." She smiles, the irony of it all makes me laugh under my breath. And she laughs too. I kind of like it. "So why don't you just call him that?"

"Because nobody calls him that. Except adults. He's always been called Cartman... I don't think any of us would like it if we called him by anything else. It would be too weird."

I wish I just ignored her. Because now it feels like I'm coming undone, people have noticed me. And I'm not just Kyle, that redheaded kid who's from South Park, who doesn't like snow and tried to jump off the roof three months ago... Now I'm Kyle who has a life back home that he desperately wants to get back to. With real life friends who seem eternal outside this dump, just memories. And we're all just bundles of nerves and wires that have been cut short, numbed for now. Will things ever be the same? Has everything changed? Have I changed? Are people going to remember who I was?

Those thoughts kept snowballing on me, thriving, multiplying. I know it sounds insane, but in case you haven't noticed...

I didn't make a scene. I'm not that kind of guy. I grabbed my collage, feeling the paper wither and crease under my hardened fingers, knocking some glue over in the process. People are looking at me. But I don't give them the satisfaction of meeting their eyes. I stand up and walk out, no one stopped me. Well, maybe they can take a hint. That I want to be alone and closed off and have secrets. I just want some privacy, even all those years ago, when I was me, a kid who was doing okay, he liked to be on his own, he didn't want people to pity him or feel sorry for him. I miss him. He would be so angry with me for ruining his memory and becoming a mess who can't control himself.

I slammed the door of my room and smiled wickedly when the walls shook. It's nice to know that you can provoke reactions out of things. Even if they have no pulse. I was still clutching onto that damp piece of paper. I ripped it up, into tiny little shreds and watched my makeshift confetti fall onto the floor in heavy, simple colours. It was ruined anyway. The glitter I used to write names in hadn't dried, so all the colours had stuck together. Splattered, violently destroyed. I don't know why I found it so disgusting, but I just did. It clung to my fingers. Sparkling trails pave the paths on my weathered hands.

I don't think that girl was even real, Frank. That's the painfully funny part. The part that makes me hate myself even more. Her memory is starting to become fuzzy. She looked a lot like Bebe. Too much like her.

Kyle

~x~

Dear Frank

No matter how hard you try you can never escape the outside. I guess that goes without saying. We'd like to think that we can control the things we see, the emotions we feel, the memories we regurgitate constantly in our troubled heads but, whether you're deemed insane or not, you really have no control. We're only human after all. Our minds are fickle, deceiving, macabre and sadistic. At least that's what I feel like. But it doesn't take a doctor to wipe away the pain in someone's eyes and uncover what they're trying their damn hardest to hide.

I used to dream carelessly, fleeting, meaningless dreams that could be easily disposed. But now I guess my dreams are a lot more lucid, memorable and haunting. The same, vivid moments on a carousel. In perfect order, small bullets that manage to make me scream. Wake up shivering, my heart racing and what tastes like vomit in the back of my throat. After the sixth time this happened, nobody bothered showing up to calm me down. I don't care. I don't understand, but I still don't care.

Kyle

~x~

There's a stretch of aqua sky and moving clouds, swimming upstream to a forgotten, magical place. A hand blocks my vision, I think it's my hand, but it doesn't feel attached to me, it moves on it's own accord and mockingly twirls the clouds like cotton candy around it's finger. This makes me laugh sluggishly, my name whispered firm and bordering on silent in my ear. I ignore it, I don't like it, it sends an unwelcome shiver down my spine. But it speaks again. My name is softer, gentle. I want to speak. Leave me alone. But my words slip out of my mouth heavily, mixing up and I can feel them getting rearranged. No, you're doing it wrong. That's not what I said._ l-e-a-v-e- m-e -a-l-o-n-e._ My name is spoken again, every letter rolling effortlessly, beautiful pearls. Kyle, Kyle, Kyle, Kyle._ K-Y-L-E_. I want to hear it again. Because my name has never been spoken in such a beautiful way before. My hand, the clouds, the voice, it all vanishes.

I'm in my room and I know that right now I'm fourteen. Stan is sitting on the edge of my bed. Like he's waiting for me to say something. But I don't know if I can. I want him to help me. And the sad thing is, I don't think he wants to. I don't like him here, he's not Stan. He looks exactly like him but something doesn't feel right. There's pressure on my smallest finger and Stan has hooked it with his own. Words, conversation, comes rushing back and I'm suddenly saying.

"Pinky promise?" Far too optimistic. I wish I hadn't said anything.

Stan flashes me that warm, genuine smile and says "I promise Kyle. We'll always be friends, okay?"

I can see my reflection, smiling weakly but having a fleeting trust in my best friends words. Now I know better and I want to scream and say that this promise was nothing but bullshit and that I thought that you cared Stan, I thought you understood, because we're not different. I hate to break it to you dude, but we're exactly the same. Except I was paranoid and crazy enough to let this parasitic _thing _take over me. Let this town and this school and these people ruin me. I know how much this eats at you Stan, you can pretend all you want. But you've been broken before and I don't give a fuck when I say that I'll happily watch you destroy yourself again...

But I know I don't mean that. A part of me does, this polluted part of me that will conquer me one day. But I know who I am. I may forget sometimes, but this dream always reminds me. Who I'm desperately trying to get back. I guess this nightmare has its perks.

"Don't go" Stan whispers with tears in his rich Cobalt eyes. Before I can question him, the sentence crawls across my throat like termites. Staying forever. Branded. **Don't Go**.

My eyes drain the colour from my vision, noises collide, clash, fighting each other. I wish I could close my eyes but something tells me that I can't make this go away. Purple. Purple. Familiar purple. I'm pressed up against an old wall, littered with swastikas. With loving hands squeezing my hips and gentle kisses tremble over my neck. My shaking hands clumsily grip onto Cartman's shoulders and I've never been so happy to see him. The worst kind of sadness is an empty, aching sadness. That always manages to pull me apart whenever I acknowledge the fact that I can only see him in my dreams now. And how long it's been since I've kissed him.

In this hollow dream however, heat begins to stir in my groin when he leaves lovebites on my already tainted neck. The sentence carved across my throat catches my breath and makes it harder and harder for me to breathe. Gasps of air twinned with hungry, lusty moans. Why won't he look at me? I want you to look at me Cartman, I've forgotten what your eyes look like, how you smile so warmly at me. Those stunning Golden Brown irises always manage to overwhelm me, take my breath away. I need that excitement right now, I've been craving it for so long. I groan impatiently before I clutch onto his beautiful chestnut hair and force his lips onto mine, I love his hair, I was always so jealous of it. I hate my ugly red, unruly curls. I constantly pine for his taste. It's addictive... I love his taste, his lips, the way he kisses me. I'm not romantic, but he's managed to turn me into a lovesick, heartbroken mess.

He smiles against my open mouth, murmuring my name. I want to speak, instead I laugh softly. I can feel him fading, he's not real. We were never real. I try to convince myself that I'm lying. I know I am. But I fail.

"Don't go Kahl, please..." He's softly begging me, kissing me over and over. Don't stop. I've wanted this for so long.

Acidic tears fill my sore eyes and slip down my tired face. My mouth has gone dry, words have been evaporated and all I can say is.

"I won't." I know I can say this. It's so painful and haunting. It sends a reverb through both of us, making me tremble and my spine shiver.

There's an explosion of sunlight and a ripple of cheers, eager cries from a masked audience. I don't want to face them. Stay with me, Cartman. You and me. Like we planned. Don't leave me, I knew I never said it enough, but I need you. I don't want to face them. I'm fucking terrified right now. And you are too, you can pretend all you want. You can pretend that you're this tough kid who doesn't give a shit about anybody but you do. You, you cared about me. You cared about Stan and Kenny. You don't have to admit it. I know I'm right. But if you wanted to protect me, you would just hold me and kiss me and never stop. I can't leave, I trust you, don't make me go out there. Please, I'm begging you Cartman, don't leave me. I need this to be real. Normal. Like I always wanted.

_Ladies and Gentleman!_

The voice is like a hurricane, destroying everything effortlessly in its path.

"Come on Kahl... You can't stay in the dark forever" Cartman smiles weakly and he takes my hand. But he's already gone. I can feel it.

The walls, this world, my sanity, all folds in on me. And the thought of feeling so small is fucking suffocating. As for Cartman... He's gone, I'm lonely again, just another reminder that I'm more used to being isolated, cut off and neglected than being embraced, loved, maybe even remembered. The sad part is, my friends, my family, everybody I know can survive perfectly without me and I may sound really self obsessed and pathetic when I say that I'm struggling without them. I don't think that's fair. It's such a cruel injustice that some screwed up karma has shoved down my throat.

This bitter thought of being reunited with Cartman makes a wry smile creep across my face. It makes my heart beat slowly, thin shards of air puncture my lungs. I'm on the floor, staring up into nothing, shivering like crazy and I wish I could stop. Whatever air that was in my slowly decaying lungs has been knocked out and I'm stupidly struggling for breath.

Kenny is lying next to me, his hair, his clothes, his hands, hell, all of his skin is covered in blood. Some is caked and burgundy, with a potent smell of rust, some is an inviting crimson, shimmering on his skin and it makes him eerily pretty. But he's scary. Terrifying. His eyes are a mocking, never ending abyss of aqua and his smile is delirious and sickening.

But his voice slips out of his bloodied lips in a broken whisper.

""Ssshh, don't make a sound. We have to be quiet."

"Kenny, where are we?" I whimper, trembling.

"Isn't it obvious, genius?" It sounds bitter. I don't like it. I don't like any of this.

I shake my head and instead of giving me an answer, he laughs and so does the invisible audience... it arrives like a wave washing over me, leaving goosebumps. These people, they're sitting in judgment of us. But I haven't done anything wrong? Have I? Maybe I have. This is all my fault. I've made my bed and I guess I have to lie in it.

"Purgatory! Where we've been all along!"

"Kenny, I don't understand..." I helplessly whisper, willing for these tears not to run.

"Ssssh Kyle! You need to be quiet... we just got to wait for it to pass us over" Wait for what to pass us over? I wish I could ask for answers. But I can't. When did I start to lose control? or maybe I've never had it to begin with, that's terrifying...

Kenny chuckles lowly to himself before mockingly sighing in a sirens voice "You know all about passover don't you?"

I find myself chuckiling too, before saying "I guess..."

"Tell me Kyle. To calm us down."

"It's kind of a long story." I laugh nervously.

"I don't care. I have time." And something tells me he means it.

To be honest, I think I've forgotten it. I don't know how I could, I mean, we used to hear it at every Seder dinner and they told us every time we went to the special services held at the synagogue . I liked it when I was a kid, it's a good story. You know, besides from the fact that it has a shitload of death and suffering. The fact that God can kill people seemingly without remorse makes me edgy, I don't like that side of Him. But you can't pretend like it never happened.

Well, I'll try to remember as best as I can. All I can recall is, hardening of hearts, plagues, locusts, frogs, disease, death, famine, houses protected by lambs blood, the angel that passed the houses over, flat bread, the parting of the sea... Huh, my parents would be so proud of me.

"Well, thousands of years ago, the Pharaoh Ramases ruled Egypt... he was a good ruler, but he kept Hebrews as slaves... Although, one of his closest friends was Moses, a Hebrew who was found when he was a baby by a princess and she raised him like he was her own."

I swallow the ash that has crawled over my vocal chords, tightening.

"One day, Moses saw this dude beating a slave and it made him so angry that Moses killed the Egyptian-"

"I like this story. It has everything." Kenny deadpans, the audience agrees with him, they laugh lowly. Whilst I start to tremble, never feeling so terrified. And for what? The story calms me though. It brings back memories of my mom telling it to me and my brother.

"Moses ran away and he spent most of his life as a shepherd."

"Seems like this Moses dude running away from his problems isn't gonna please the big guy upstairs, huh?"

"The lord works in mysterious ways" I smile softly, before continuing "One day, while looking after his flock, Moses saw a burning bush... he knew that this was God talking to him, saying that Moses was the one to deliver His people out of slavery. Moses' brother Aaron was his spokesperson, but Moses was God's chosen one. A prophet. Moses didn't know how exactly he was supposed to lead the Hebrews out of Egypt, but God promised that He would help him."

"Now this is getting good, right folks?" Kenny calls out to a hollow crowd, who's cheers echo menacingly. "Continue..."

"Moses and Aaron went to Egypt, they told the Pharoah God's wish that the Hebrews be freed. But Ramases said No, he didn't recognize their God. Moses tried to convince Ramases God's power by performing a miracle, he threw his staff on the ground and it transformed into a snake, but Ramases didn't change his mind. The next day, the Pharaoh was walking along the river Nile and Aaron and Moses asked again. Moses put his staff in the water and turned the river into blood, so nobody could drink from it, but Ramases still told them no."

"What happened then?" Kenny asks, running his finger along my scarred neck. The trail of crimson he leaves behind is enough to make me heave.

"God sent ten plagues, making each one worse than the last. These plagues frightened Ramases and he promised that he would let the Hebrews go. But once each plague had stopped, his heart was hardened and he'd go back on his word."

"Poor slaves. That doesn't seem very fair..."

"I hate to break it you Ken, but life rarely is."

Kenny smirks in derision before shaking his head "Don't lecture me on how fair life is, I've been there, done that, worn the fucking t-shirt."

I can't argue with him. I know it's true. Prophecies, divine intervention, miracles, it's nothing new to Kenny. Him and God are probably very well acquainted.

My voice trembles slightly as I continue with the story. "Then God sent one last plague to Egypt. The worst of them all. He sent an Angel of Death to visit every single house in Egypt and the angel would take away the first born child. Moses told the Hebrews and said that the only way for their children to be safe, is to mark the doors with the blood of a lamb. So, when the Angel arrived in Egypt, it passed over the houses with blood on the door. The houses of the Hebrews."

Childish fear ripples through me when I think of the angel. That part of the story always freaked me out, in my head the angel was an unforgiving, incandescent ghost who commanded your soul if you did so much as stare into it's bottomless eyes. It didn't spare you, hear your cries, see your tears. It could sense your terror and your weakness and it would thrive on that, coax trembles and whimpers out of you and leave you lifeless and bleeding. It was silent, cunning and left no trace. So tempting and breathtakingly beautiful yet so callous and sinister.

Maybe this is what I'm waiting for. That angel will spare Kenny, soaked in blood and will take me. Who would miss me? My friends would fill the void with that crucial fourth guy, the town would write me off as another tragic memory, it's a shame about what happened, but he's no longer apart of our conscience anymore, so it's best not to dwell on him. My parents would turn my bedroom into a guest room or a spare room, their first child forgotten and soon enough, it would be easy for them to say that they only have one child. Not really ours, but he's all we've got. The only family we have. And that boy who lived here before has conveniently, magically disappeared. Like a dream, an epiphany, a fond memory.

Kenny's voice breaks through the wall of paranoid maggots eating away at the charred remains of my brain.

"Oh! I get it! That's why it's called Passover, right? 'Cause the angel passed those houses?"

"Yeah" I smirk dryly "That's pretty much it."

"Did we enjoy that folks?" Kenny calls out and they chant back "Yes!" It hits me like a forceful wave, cruel and taunting.

"What about the sons?" a small voice asks.

"What?" I reply, not even realizing that the small voice was coming from Kenny.

"Aren't there sons? Four sons?"

"Oh, not in the actual story..."

"And what are they?"

I swallow before whispering "One wise, one wicked, one simple and one who does not know how to ask."

Why does Kenny insist on pulling these demons out of me? Fears and memories that I'd rather discard, so I can move on, start fresh without any of this baggage behind me... Still, the question gnaws at me; who am I? Who am I supposed to be? I don't feel wise. If I were wise I wouldn't be so scared, confused and alone. Maybe I'm wicked for being so different, unmanageable, such a burden on everybody's lives... Maybe I'm simple for not finding answers to unknown questions. But it's possible I do know them, except I'm too afraid to ask.

It's almost as if he's reading my mind when Kenny asks

"So which one are you? Out of all of us, which one do you think you are?"

I know it sounds strange, but I felt a surge of relief when I breathe out "I don't know."

Kenny snickers carelessly, running his hands through his sticky blond hair, tinged with scarlet. Huh, kinda like mine. It annoys me, how aloof he's being about this, he hasn't given me answers which I'm so desperate to hear whilst I have answered each and every one of his pointless questions with honesty.

"Who says I have to pick anyway? How are you so sure of yourself?" I snap, the calmness that makes him brave enough to reach my furious eyes, makes me wince.

"I just am, Kyle. That's life. The way things do down."

"How can you not be bothered by stuff like this?! How can you be so fucking at peace with everything?!" I shout, before whispering anxiously "Aren't you scared of them worming themselves in?"

"Who? You mean them?" Kenny asks, with a slight gesture to the cackling ghosts who have been enthralled and enchanted with my blond harlot from the moment I came here.

I nod and Kenny shakes his head "No. They're not scary. They're people, like you and me."

A low rumble of whispers surrounds us like a sinister tornado, wrapping us up and making the air toxic. I don't care what Kenny says, I'm terrified. Especially when the rumble and hushed chaos turns into a forever approaching roar and sickening silence.

"Quick, Kyle, ask me one question. Before we go."

"What?!"

"Ask me anything! You know you want to, I know how frustrated you are."

How the fuck is he doing this?! Am I that predictable? Has the real world started to take over, so bittersweet and tempting?

"What's it like being immortal?" I whimper.

Sad yet hopeful smiles flicker between both of us and Kenny whispers weakly "Okay. There's a lot of waiting around though."

The floor disintegrates into hot, crimson sand, burning my back, my feet, my hands... Laughter erupts again like soft, harlequin rainfall, but like everything it morphs effortlessly, too soon.

It turns into fake, forced chatter of hysterically happy people. You know, the kind of people who can be deliriously ecstatic before crashing spectacularly to unhinged, helpless souls with tears ruining their make-up.

Frightened whispers of people who sound vaguely real. People that I know. Vivid voices that make my stomach lurch.

Curses and broken promises strung through, gritted, malicious teeth. So wrong and cruel that they sound honest, truthful.

Thin, black silhouettes of snakes, oily, jet black like taunting shadows. They hiss and spit as they coil tightly around Kenny and I's waist, I move so the damn things don't crush my lungs. It still doesn't make my breathing any less frantic, or my heart hammer any slower. They seem to wither and die, but they get readily replaced, the old ones turn to ash and wriggle uncomfortably into the pores on my skin. Poisoning my veins, ready to devour every part of me.

But Kenny doesn't flinch. I suppose it's because he'll be back tomorrow. In this wasteland. Purgatory. While my corpse will be just left to decay, for the hellish scavengers to pick at. Be my guest, fuckers.

"Am I gonna die?" my voice wavering.

"You could only ask one question..."

"Damn it Kenny! I've had enough of this fucking bullshit! I can ask you as many questions as I want! Now answer me before I smash your fucking head open!"

Kenny laughs a hollow laugh, unsuited to him, I don't like it, I hate it, loathe it.

"Hey you're back! I've missed this feisty little prick! What happened to you, huh? Where did the old Kyle go?" Kenny smiles smugly, throwing his head back and laughing some more.

"He never left." I swallow, feeling some sick relief tug in the core in my chest. I close my eyes, blind to the terror that is giving me a weird adrenaline rush.

It's then the writhing snakes start to become more than just uncomfortable and their golden, sinister fangs break through my flesh, provoking blood. It dries quickly and is forgotten. These demonic creatures numb me, leave diseased sores on my skin without remorse, I grind my teeth in pain, holding back a scream.

It's then a greedy sun tears through the incandescent light that has broke through the dams of my papery eyelids, a smothering, satisfied crackle is elicited from the black termites that follow the trail of destruction. I choke, I whimper, my lungs scrape for painful, hard breath.

Goodbye purgatory, goodbye angel, goodbye to you all. I'll see you again soon. And I wish I could speak more, cry out for help. But you're not going to listen. It pains me to know that you never did. After all these years.

Then I'm awake, in a sober reality. In a still strange bed, in a cold room, in a building void of any emotion except despair and confusion.

I sit for a while, my head still reeling, trying to force myself to go back to sleep. I stare at my pale, bony wrist, marred by sutures and faint, lilac veins. My wristband has never felt so heavy. That damn thing that links all of us together. Yeah right.

I take the damn thing off and place it on my dresser. Wishing that I won't have to look at it again.

Sleeping has never been such a chore.

~x~

Dear Frank

I wish I could say I knew how this whole thing started, but I don't. Truth is, I've always been like this. For as long as I can remember I have been neurotic, short tempered, obsessive and volatile, I battled with those demons everyday, wrung out those lifeless entities in my callous hands, only to find that by morning they had risen from their poisonous ashes and crawled back inside. Claws and teeth pierced my skin and provoked rivulets of blood, but they didn't hurt as much as the horrible thoughts that I wanted to decay. Those thoughts searched and dislocated for light between the rubble and breathed new life into the sac of obsessions, fears, insecurities and tears that I had bottled up over my still very young years. Until they crystallized. To an outsider, they looked admirable. Beautiful. I strung those pearls through my baby teeth and spoke effortlessly. Insults, wit, profanity and the lessons I had learned were welcomed masques to prevent people from peering deeper into the looking glass. Move along people, nothing to see here. Don't look too long or you'll be lost forever.

At the age of two, I met Stan. I had grown weary and frightened of children my own age and I stubbornly refused to acknowledge why. My mother's patience was tested many times. At the playground I would be content to sit in my mother's lap, with the cold pinching my childish face, staring up at the clouds that moved only for me. Those other children seemed like licentious monsters who would offer me a glimpse of gilded friendship and their keen attention, before quickly disowning me when I unwillingly committed treason against them, or they would shamelessly turn their backs on me for someone new. Then we're back to square one. Back to the clouds.

Stan was different. This boy with big cobalt eyes and tufts of jet black hair sticking out from an absurdly oversized hat seemed like a figure from a vivid dream. It didn't even occur to me that Stan had seen me before. Whilst his mother and mine drank coffee in the kitchen, talking and laughing, we were too preoccupied with our own vanishing thoughts and the warmth and smell of our mother's perfumes to notice each other. My parents assumed I would like Stan and it turns out they were right. From the first time we ran around the backyard catching snowflakes on our tongue, his nose blushing a furious pink and his eyes reflecting the snow we were so enchanted by, I knew we'd be inseparable.

He was shy at first and I was hostile. It seemed that our friendship was a lost cause, until our mothers wrapped us up in layers of sweaters and coats to face the harsh Colorado weather. I even remember the pairs of snow boots they gave us, lacing the shoes so tight that it made my tiny feet swell. Whilst I had never seen Stan without his trusty hat, I protested when my mother tried to fit my abundance of unruly red curls under my faithful green ushanka. It's funny to think that I would rely on that thing until sixth grade. They placed us, wide eyed and disbelieving in the snow, barely shivering due to our ridiculous amount of layers but we eventually started to get along, by the end of the afternoon we seemed to have accepted each other. He gave me a forlorn smile and a shy wave as his mother scooped him up in her arms whilst I cried and begged my mother for Stan to come over and play tomorrow. Yes, we were very fond of each other indeed.

I think this is why I've always trusted Stan, why I feel like he understands me and is immune to feeling freaked out or confused when I have "episodes", as my parents were quick to phrase them. I understand him too, better than anybody and he knows that. As I started to grasp the concept of exactly what I was dealing with in this fucked up little brain of mine, I started to wonder whether Stan felt the same way I did, we had always seemed to relate to each other. I started to wonder whether he had sleepless nights that made his days just a landslide of numbed, asphyxiating emotions. A routine that refuses to relinquish control over you. I wondered whether he had learned that it doesn't matter if the sun is shining or the moon is flickering, it doesn't mean anything to the cyclone of malicious thoughts, the constant vertigo, the polluted water that tests the walls of the prettiest of irises. Boys can cry, they can cry as much as they fucking want, whenever they fucking want. Not like I ever did. I cried, made sure I muffled them, dried them quickly. The heaviness that wouldn't stop nagging, my sore eyes, the amylase that rose thick and fast like bile in my throat told me. I wasn't okay. Never okay. So I just need to grit my teeth and remember to wake up.

When we were ten, I asked him. Speaking to his reflection that seemed better than mine.

"Do you ever feel like you're not good enough?"

"What do you mean?" Was his soft, nervous reply.

"Well, like, I don't know. Sometimes I think that maybe you can be alive but feel worthless inside. Dead, you know? Exhausted and hateful of everything because you're too afraid to let your guard down or too cynical to see past the bullshit that you've convinced yourself is real, when deep down you know it's not. Do you ever feel like you're so under pressure from inothing /ithat you feel like screaming and crying and not waking up the next day? So angry that you can imagine destroying anything and everything? Don't you ever hate yourself and think that every tiny, insignificant thing that happens in this world is somehow all your fault?... And it's scary because if that's all there is, then what's the point of living?"

Stan swallows, bites his lip and whispers shakily "Kyle, what the hell are you talking about?"

"Nothing." I lie. Everything's wrong, everything hurts. When you have nothing else...

"Kyle... Do you feel like that?" Stan whimpers, refusing to look at me with forced eyes.

I don't want to answer him. The worst thing I can say right now is "yes" so I swallow my tears and mutter.

"I want to leave. Run away because this town is too small. I don't like this, being here, these people. Like they'll ever understand."

I was right all along. Stan changed that day, he became more aware of me. His sideways glances were laced with concern and pity. Maybe I was that much of a sad story now. I didn't want him to become like me. Though I knew it could happen. We're alike. And I don't like that.

By the time I was eleven, my parents realized they couldn't keep making excuses for me anymore. Maybe I wasn't "feisty" or "tough" or "neat" or "short-tempered". Maybe I wasn't "okay." Maybe I had wanted a way out for years and I went about it totally the wrong way.

I had too many nightmares. Too many sleepless nights. Too many blacked out days where I forced the sun away with an uncaring flick of my wrist, casting my room in an invasive shadow. Too many skipped meals. Too many trips to the nurses room or the principal's office. Either for the blood of some sniveling little kid, who deserved what was coming to him, staining my wrists or my own blood that served as a macabre, far too dangerous narcotic when I wanted to block the world out for one blissful, crimson second. The immediate pain, the quick, dizzying, sickeningly enjoyable pain lasted for a couple of minutes and started to make me feel real again. I'd leave class with a hollow, dejected look and sit alone in the boys restroom, digging makeshift blades into my wrist, my neck, my face, my forearm, my chest and through my relentless tears I'd laugh. Making those blank waterfalls seem reptilian. My emerald irises nothing but accommodating green jaws. My masochistic emotions were the scavengers for the rotting flesh that the fluid had claimed. I'd meet my reflection. I'd smile at the blood covered mess in the cracked glass. He looked real. Cool. Practically perfect in every way. It was so funny that I couldn't stop laughing and when I got bored of watching him I'd turn my attention to the crude Sharpie sketches that littered the molding walls. Mutter dirty rhymes under my breath, dirty messages, curse words, decode initials. Until some unsuspecting douche strolled in to use the urinal or something. They'd have a shock. I must have looked terrifying. Still, I did as I was told when a teacher came to get me.

I never used to care about what happened to me. How much of a fucking idiot was I?

It all seemed to happen so fast. One minute I'm living under the illusion that I was fine, next minute I'm apparently sick. Sicksicksicksick. My mother made arrangements for me to see a doctor, who I instantly detested. He said a plethora of words that weren't brutal enough to rip past the delusion, but with one shattering phrase, my walls had been knocked down, the castle's under siege, time to admit defeat. I didn't of course. Why would I ever?

On the ride home, my mother didn't speak. Already I could see the cogs in her brains going into overdrive. I'd rather let mine rust. But I was silent too. Any words had evaporated under the stubborn heat of my tongue.

I talked to Stan though. When he came to sleep over a few nights later, I told him that I'd been to see a doctor, to talk about the "episodes" my noirette friend was all too familiar with. I told him what the doctor thought was wrong with me and I told him when I was going to that damn clinic next.

Stan nodded, but I could tell how much he wanted to distance himself from that kind of talk.

That is, until he noticed the scars. His slender index finger gently, cautiously, ran along the pale pink fissure on my warm neck, my pulse melting into hot, ruby liquid under his touch. That's another thing Frank, by the age of eleven I had started to notice people. And let's just say I found guys a lot more interesting than girls.

Stan whispered that my scars looked ugly. I snapped back that I knew how they looked.

I also knew that Stan didn't want to talk about my trips to the hospital anymore. So I obeyed him and made sure that I never mentioned it. I told myself it was because what happened to me, was a harsh reminder of what he was so terrified of. That possibly, if he let the poison seep through, he could wind up just like me.

Anyway, let's not talk about that anymore...

Stan and I met Cartman and Kenny when we were four, in preschool.

Strangely enough, he was the one who refused to enter the snake pit of screaming children, I remember how he cried. He cried and cried and cried. His mother kept kissing his cheek and messing with his hair, she said "Stanley, honey, mommy has to go now. But you'll have tons of fun and besides, Kyle is here... Can't you be a good, brave boy for me?". Stan softened a bit then, his wide blue eyes casting a shadow of thought. But it was finally when I took his small, pudgy hand in mine and whined "C'mon Stan!" that he bit his lip, still trembling and forced himself to stumble into that room with me.

Like Stan and I, Cartman and Kenny were friends long before preschool. I noticed a flash of orange, blue eyes, like a sky drained of clouds, that were a lot more vast, consuming than Stan's. Our soon to be lifelong friends were in the corner, I don't think a lot of kids wanted to play with them. For two very different reasons, Kenny was painfully shy and up until he was five only responded to people with a simple nod or shake of his head, the softening of his features behind that damn parka that hid his mouth, the twitch of a smile, a furrow of fair, blond eyebrows. Even when he did decide to speak, it was very little, sometimes perverse, but always muffled. Hell, it was good enough.

Cartman, on the other hand, had already made a reputation for himself as a mean spirited, selfish little kid. Which caused other children to keep their distance, which honestly, is probably what he wanted. I always wondered why Kenny tagged along with him. Maybe he was too shy, too optimistic, or maybe just too down on his luck that he thought Cartman was the best companion he could get. But even for the "silent years" of Kenny's life, Cartman and him disagreed and though Kenny was afraid to talk, he wasn't afraid to hit.

Stan and I introduced ourselves, well, I did all the talking. My noirette friend trailed behind me, shedding the skin off his thumb with his milk teeth. When Cartman and Kenny first saw Stan, their expressions kind of sealed the deal for our friendship. Kenny's face lit up in a sympathetic manner, probably strangely delighted that he had met a kid as shy as himself. Cartman, however, rolled his eyes and gave Stan a dismissive look. I forced us together as a group and the four of us have inseparable ever since. Except now of course.

Sometimes, when I feel desperate, helpless and angry enough to lay blame on others for my screwed up world, they are the first three people who come to mind. Maybe I secretly hate them and resent them for being as fucked up as me, but they're too proud, possibily too scared to admit it to themselves. Maybe they've seen what's happened to me and have vowed that they'll save all that craziness for stolen, endless corners of the night where no one can hear or see them. Or maybe they just know how to handle things better than me. But I hate feeling so lonely, it's always been the same, it's the same old story and it just keeps getting worse and worse. I'm made to feel like I'm different from them when we're all exactly the same. I know things about those three that would tear their image to pieces but I'm stupid enough to keep my mouth shut because of this unconditional bond that forces me to protect them. But why didn't they protect me? Don't they miss me? Don't I cross their minds? Sure they visit me, but am I selfish for wanting more than that?

Frank, I fucking hate asking questions that I know I'll never get answers for. I know you're not going to help me. Still, it would be cool if you were real...

All the memories are rushing back now, I want them to go away, why can't they just leave me alone?. They're nice, happy memories, of being a kid, Stark pond, field trips, camping, the time we stayed over Stan's house for an entire weekend playing video games, ditching class to throw rocks at cars, seeing Asses of Fire for what felt like a billion times at the movies... And we're all laughing and having a good time. Everything seems so careless and fleeting and I wish I could feel like that now. Even though I was already screwed up back then, I could allow myself to get distracted or count on my friends. I felt like there was hope. I felt lonely and lost but hope was a constant fixture that I could reach out to and now...

Now.

It's gone.

They're gone and they haven't looked back. Everybody's gone and left me to clear up this mess. In this war path that's all my fault.

What do I get for trying my hardest to be a good person? Nothing, fucking nothing, Frank, I used to stupidly believe that things could get better, but turns out that I was wrong. Who would've thought, huh?

I was there all along. Right there. I remember...

It was the four of us against the world. We were happy in our own messed up way. We needed each other though we would never fucking admit it, because that's too much. We were too proud. It all comes down to pride in the end. But no one will remember you for conforming, for trying to live up to expectations.

Do they even appreciate anything?

Because I was the one who had to watch Stan destroy himself after his parents got divorced for the second time. I helped him though he stubbornly refused, put all the frustration I felt towards him and turned it in on myself. I prayed that he would be my best friend again, the kid who I had known for virtually all my life. Eventually he did, though the wounds are still there. Behind his fragile eyes, his weariness, his inability to trust people. Scars.

Even though Kenny had told us over and over again, I was the one who first discovered he was telling the truth about his immortality. In the most gruesome way imaginable. We were 12. The memory that haunts me even now.

I was the one who time and time again, set all my principals and morals aside for Cartman. Even if I was smart enough to realise that he was only going to hurt me or trick me and make me angrier than I already was. He's so fucking manipulative, Frank. But I have this unconditional love for him that makes me believe in him even more, though he's just a lost cause now. By the time we were fourteen we had fallen for each other, got each other hooked and I saw a side of him that I couldn't help but love. We had given each other something that we never knew we wanted. We revived each other. But it's all gone now. That hurts me more than anything.

Whatever, they're probably happier without me anyway.

Just lock me away where no one can see me, because apparently I can never be forgiven for being so fucked up.

I don't blame them if they've forgotten how things were, those blissful days, when we were kids who didn't know any better. I was screaming inside, but they were too naive to listen.

Still, I'll never forget.

Kyle

P.S. You're probably wondering about what happened between me and Cartman, but that's another story.

~x~

Dear Frank

Can I ever give myself a break?

I've spent the day thinking about him. I woke up to the memory of his eyes, his smile, his laugh and they've decided to stick around for the rest of the day.

I grin through the tears because these memories seem so perfect, enchanting. Nothing but celluloid.

My hand is shaking. I don't want to write, I'm already silently sobbing, but I feel more productive when I write to you Frank, I feel like I have a voice.

I know you've never met Cartman, but believe me, he's one of those people who you'll never forget. His memory will cling to you, sweet and addictive.

He used to make me angry, obsessively angry, provoke me and irritate me to the point that I felt like hurting him. Which I did, a couple of times. More times than I care to mention. He's a drama queen though, overreacting to everything. Even the slightest punch. But I made him feel the same, he never stopped reminding me. It's weird to think how obsessed he was with me when we were kids. I guess it was because I had the guts to stand up to him, to not take any of his crap... I like to think he knew about me. You know, the bad, dark stuff. That those manipulative, ruthless eyes saw through me because I was that predictable. That's kind of his specialty, manipulating people. And revenge. He once killed a person's parents, ground them up into chilli and fed them to the poor bastard... Turns out that the dead dad was also, well, Cartman's dad too... Fucked up, right?

After a while, I started to become attracted to him. When the true extent of my feelings really hit me, it felt so wrong and disgusting but weirdly enjoyable and relieving at the same time. We were fourteen. It was hard not to be attracted to Cartman when we were fourteen. Puberty was very kind to him. Which I thought was pretty unfair. All the girls used to talk about him, but strangely, he didn't take what was basically being offered to him. The girls used to flirt with him and he used to get majorly uncomfortable and embarrassed. I felt bad for him. I know it sounds petty and childish, but unlike those girls, Cartman actually paid attention to me. Even if he was calling me names, it was _something_ I thought it was just hormones at the time, but, there was a spark between us. It had always been there but now the tight knot of anger in my stomach was softened by butterflies and my groin felt unbearably fucking heavy with heat. God, when we were fourteen, I used to _jack off_ thinking about him, the way he said my name, his bitter laugh, his arrogant smile, the anger that made his eyes seem incandescent, beautiful eyes, Golden Brown, the colour making me helpless. I used to think about his lips capturing mine in silent conflict, his hands and tongue trailing over my trembling body... Jesus Christ... how weird it that? Still, soon enough those fantasies would become reality.

_"I think I like you..." I shakily whisper._

_But he had already kissed me when he replied shyly "Well, I like you too..."_

He's beautiful. Gorgeous. I used to love to watch him sleep, he'd stir when I gently brushed some of his chestnut hair out of his softly closed eyes. He'd grumble, low in the back of his throat "Kahl", but I'd laugh and in his half asleep state he'd grab me and pull me in, listening to his heartbeat while the TV blared nonsense in the background. It wasn't just when he was sleeping that I'd get overwhelmed by him. When we engaged in feverish, hungry kisses in our bedrooms or in the secret cubbyholes that only Cartman knew about at school, sometimes we would pause, for a brief second and I'd notice his eyes firmly fixed on my flushed, damp mouth and that nervous, excited half smirk on his lovely lips. I think I found him so beautiful at that moment because he was wearing his heart on his sleeve, those emotions that we had repressed and attacked for years were shown carelessly on his face, in a moment of happiness.

No one knew about us, it was too much pressure to tell people. Our parents would've gone crazy and Stan would probably have had a seizure... So when we stole quick glances and secretive smiles when we were hanging out in our usual foursome, at lunch, playing video games or skipping class to just wander around the deserted town, those treasured moments felt amazing. I didn't like seeing the girls flirting with him, it freaks me out thinking about how jealous I was. I got some comfort out of seeing him half heartedly talk to those cheerleaders who were all over him, knowing that he was mine. The self assured smile he offered me, made my possession of him true.

He was dangerous. But, then again, so was I. As the weeks, months, years went by, I realized that maybe I didn't have to tell him my deepest, darkest secret. I didn't have to introduce him to the monster who stirred me, who had more leverage and possession over me than he ever could. I think he was jealous, he fought for me in vain. Gilded envy spiked the rich manipulative caramel, the hardened, unflinching, aggressive anger and refused to leave. Instead, it crystallized and shone brighter whenever I exposed too much of what he already knew.

Sometimes I wish I didn't love him. It was all so greedy, self serving. Both of us selfish miscreants who had anchored ourselves to each other because we kept up this idea that... _Only we could understand each other_. I tried to understand him. He pretended that he didn't know everything about me. Who was I to clean his wounds when I was still bleeding on the battlefield?

I had to remind myself sometimes that he was human. A child. A broken heart and a written off soul. Hell roared inside him though. The devil had slit his throat, perched his throne on top of his brain, swam in those twin pools of topazes. Cartman hadn't sold his soul, he merely tangled himself in flames.

We spent our nights imprisoned, guarded by the stars. We tried to fight the passion, the temptation, the sin. But the more he pushed me away, the more he refrained, the more I wanted to keep pursuing him. We drank through the numbness until our kisses turned clumsy and our guards were down. I smoked because he did, because I liked the taste, the way he would offer me a drag of his cancerous jewel. I obeyed him because I had nothing telling me otherwise. It was nice to share something with him. It was comforting to know that self destruction was on both of our agendas.

One day, one strangely pure day, walking through the snow carelessly, I told him about, well, ieverything. /iThe things he already knew, he didn't seem shocked. He didn't seem to be feeling anything. He just listened and touched my hand every now and then. But I didn't need reassurance, I didn't need to explain anything, because we're the same. We were just tied to different ends of the crossroad.

_"Well, aren't you going to say anything?" I ask him this as a blizzard dies down, along with my own racing heartbeat._

_"No" He shrugs, not breaking or flinching._

_"Why?" I ask quietly, I can feel myself blushing and I hope he doesn't notice._

_"There's nothing to say" He replies, before walking ahead without me. And a part of me hopes that the seriousness of it all hit him then._

He was funny. Cruelly funny. Every laugh he elicited from me was guilty, nasty, and biting. Every joke and comment was witty but mean and sometimes I had to wonder if he was joking or not. He told me that he loved my laugh. If I wasn't laughing at his jokes or sarcastic musings then I was laughing wickedly, softly from the feeling of his lips bruising my neck or the way he used to pick me up and carry me over his shoulder. Sometimes he would carry me home while I laughed crazily and punched him, begging for him to put me down when really I didn't want it to end. I know it sounds stupid, but I felt weightless. I felt like nothing. In the heat of the moment, it felt great.

He brought something out in me. Something a little less cold. Something a tad more happy. Though he also encouraged the side of me that I had hated, denied for years, to rise above the flames, to do it's worst. He liked that I was crazy. It reminded him that he wasn't the only one. To be honest, I liked it too, having him be an overwhelming, incredible force in my life kept me barely in check. I was on thin ice, I knew I would fall into that frozen hell below me, but I was trying to scrape for every second I could.

The thing about being human is, you can't be immortal or eternal or effortlessly perfect. It leaves you open to mistakes, weakness, impulse. It plants those seven sins inside you, like time bombs. You don't know when they will be set off. But it's only a matter of time. Believe me.

Because I wanted him, Frank. Honestly, like you wouldn't fucking believe.

Like they say, you always want what you can't have. But the frustrating thing is, he was mine and I was his. All so simple and neat. Except that it wasn't. He was fine with kissing me, chaste, quick kisses and slow burning, messy kisses that engulf you in flame. He was fine with lovebites. He was fine with holding me and letting me fall asleep on his chest. But he didn't like to be touched, he didn't like to be stroked, or teased, he didn't like the idea of flesh meeting or the sound of a cranky zip sighing in relief. He didn't like that at all.

The whole concept of sex disgusted him, he was weary of it and he turned away from it. He changed the subject abruptly whenever it dared to come up in conversation and he recoiled from all my advances, every teasing, low whisper in his ear and every flirty, hesitant touch.

I've never been an overly sexual or romantic person. It's hard to believe right now, Frank and I realize that. But I didn't have a boyish obsession with it or the need to giggle and blush whenever the slightest mention of it came up, like Kenny did. I didn't become infatuated and sucked in to the idea of love as easily as Stan. In fact, the only reason I'm a lovesick mess remembering my glory days is all because Cartman found me and showed me how to feel about a person. I fell in love. Madly, deeply, pathetically.

One day, I asked him. Some people would be scared to ask Cartman anything, because he gets so defensive over anything that could hit too close to home, or puncture a nerve. Why should I be more afraid of him than I already am? When I know that he feels exactly the same way about me?.

He stated, matter-of factly, without meeting my concerned eyes that he didn't like the idea of sex at all, he found it disgusting and wrong. He had too many bad memories, of those guys who he couldn't look at, the shame that was constantly regurgitated once his mom came downstairs, looking empty and overly provocative. While those guys looked satisfied. There were too many strangers, too many noises and thoughts to block out. He wasn't stupid, I remember him muttering bitterly, he may have been a kid, but he knew what she was doing, no matter how much she lied to him, no matter how much he pretended to believe her.

I grabbed his limp hand and his sad, exasperated eyes met mine. I promised him, with all the sincerity I could muster that it would be different when we did it. That it would mean something to both of us and I tried to convince him, and also myself, that things wouldn't change afterwards. I'd still have feelings for him, I'd still be the same person who he was terrified of losing.

He asked me why it was so important. I couldn't think of an answer. I just assured him that it was. Because I loved him. But I didn't tell him that.

He asked me about how much I wanted this. I leaned in and brushed his lips with mine and whispered that I didn't just want it, I needed it, badly.

The next hour was a blur. A beautiful, breathless one at that. Losing ourselves in the sheets, exposed for the first time, on a snowy, Saturday afternoon in an empty house. But we didn't feel the cold, the chill, not at all. Touching each other deep, kissing each other through moans, whimpers, cries and whispers. Doing things to each other that we have never done before.

He enjoyed it. To his surprise. It's one of the few memories I have where I feel weightless and free. None of the dark, suffocating stuff seemed to matter when I was in his embrace, intertwined.

And afterwards, still reeling from the whole experience, we talked about stupid, random stuff. We confessed insignificant things to each other, talked about the town, school, movies and video games. We talked about the future and college and if we could go anywhere in the world, where would it be.

The usual stuff that we talked about all the time. Except now, it felt different.

_"You don't think I'm crazy do you?" I whimper, stroking his hair limply as he kisses my neck slowly, biting my skin, like the predator he is._

_"Yeah" He breathes heavily against my saline skin, our shared, passionate dew mixing in with the sweat of relief, of weakness, which danced, with our mangled, lusty cries. His flushed lips brushing against mine when he adds "But you're so fucking perfect that none of that even matters."_

Weirdly, that was the first and last time I've had sex. Honestly. The next day he shyly asked would it be okay if we didn't have sex all the time. It wasn't because of me, he made that clear, when he said it, he smiled that beautiful, heartfelt smile and let his eyes get lost in me. He said it was because of how difficult it was to convince himself to do it and to push all those instincts aside. To let his guard down and face his fear. No matter how great it was when we were entangled together.

But in a couple of months, we'd be separated from each other. Torn apart and sleeping alone.

I love him, Frank. I always have and I pray that I always will. I miss him so much, every single day I wake up and he's the first thing that comes to mind. Sometimes these thoughts are easy to dismiss, sometimes they're a tad more difficult. Like today.

Sometimes it feels like he's dead. When he's not, he's living a better life than I am. I'm the one who's frozen in time while he gets to soullessly drift on without me. I wonder if he misses me, if it hurts him, if he's slowly falling apart. Like I am.

The sad part is that I never told him often enough about how I felt. We hardly ever said it to each other. I wish I did because maybe it'll make me feel better. When I dream about him, I'll feel a little less guilty.

I love you, Cartman. With all my heart. And I hope you think of me as much as I think of you.

But more than that, I wish that I could be with you again. And we could go back to the way we were. The way we were not so long ago.

Kyle

~x~

Dear Frank

Today started off with good news and bad news.

The good news is that I was able to skip group therapy because I had visitors. Which confused me because my parents have already had their monthly visit and I highly doubt they would spontaneously turn up to see me again. I miss my parents though, whenever I watch them leave I feel tears sting my eyes and I feel like I'm a kid again, totally dependent on them. Anyway, since I can only deal with these painful separations monthly, this could only mean that my visitors are the guys. Which is cool I suppose, because I miss them and feel pathetically left out when I think about what they're doing when I'm wasting my days in here. But, on the other hand, I always feel so tense and uneasy because I kind of feel too involved in their heads, like I'm reading in to their facial expressions too much. They don't want to be here. This place makes them uncomfortable. After a while the feeling subsides, but it's always regurgitated. It's nauseating.

So, yeah, that's the bad news side of things. Also, I look like shit.

I nervously asked one of the nurses could I go to my room for a few minutes before I met my friends in the almost deserted cafeteria. The nurses who work here are scarily intuitive, it's like they have triggers and the ability to decode every fucked up kid who walks through here. Every shift of tone in our voices, every quick flicker of facial expressions, one swift tell-tale sign of body language .. it's all so weirdly cryptic.

My shaking hands and slight break in my voice means "This kid needs to mentally prepare himself to talk to people who he shouldn't be intimidated by because he's known them forever. So offer him a condescending smile that's easy for him to shrug off and then you can sympathetically sigh loud enough for him to hear as you walk away."

What these people don't know is that I've worked them out, too. Check mate.

Back to the many roadblocks I purposely place in my mind to ultimately sabotage myself, why the fuck would I be intimidated by my friends?. To be honest, they're the least intimidating people you will ever meet. At school, with the exception of Cartman, we all kind of kept ourselves to ourselves, we didn't need to make our presence known, what would be the point? It was really all about trying to get through the day. Kenny was (correction: _is_) a stoner, Stan was focusing on football, Cartman had to maintain his reputation of being a sociopathic troublemaker who spent most of his time in detention and I was somewhere in the middle, trying to find out where I fitted in. I was always trying to find a back up plan, just in case, God forbid, that the four of us ended up losing each other. We'd be on different islands, floating to nowhere. So I could either sink or swim, can you guess what I'm doing now, Frank?

When I get to my room, I pace a little, closing my eyes and trying not to fall flat on my face, I stare menacingly at my wristband, wishing I had some scissors to cut the damn thing off and then I pop a couple of pills for good luck. Anxiety pills mainly, they work too slow, they don't give you that instant hit to make you believe you're Mr Happy-go-lucky, pissing rainbows and sunshine... Who the fuck would want to be like that anyway? Except maybe for Butters. But that kid needs it, poor guy.

I look in the mirror and realize how pale I am, how I have bags under my eyes even though I sleep heavily most nights (I guess the dream keeps a little part of me awake, forever alert). I try to smile sincerely but it doesn't work, I'm glad when it fades from the mirror. With one final, deep breath I force myself out the door and dig my hands deep into my pockets.

I always wonder why they insist on having visitors come to the cafeteria. It's so big and hollow that it makes your conversations echo, makes words sting when they're twinned by the overpowering smell of ammonia. I think they make this the official visitors area because it buys into people's urges to comfort eat in distressing situations. Whether you're a concerned family member or friend who can't believe what's going on, to a kid like me trying to distract himself from the shitstorm of conflicting emotions inside you, nothing can divert your attention and whorishly take your worries away like a snack bursting with countless saturated fats and artificial colours.

Every visit starts the same. The guys always manage to sit in the same spot, I don't know whether this is accidental or not. I know that the smiles they give me are not accidental, they're very intentional and very saccharine. I play along, when I feel like it.

Stan is always eating a snack half heartedly, it's usually Reese's Pieces or Skittles. Today it's the former, he smiles and says "hey" in this genuine, almost cute way that Stan does. Kenny gives me a simple nod and says "Kyle, dude" and Cartman smiles at me and talks to me through our secret, intangible code that we've mastered during their visits.

"Jew" means "I miss you."

"Fatass", with a shy half smile and a nod means "I miss you too."

However, "Hey Kahl" in a depressed, stony voice means "I need you to be with me right now, but it looks like that's not going to happen anytime soon is it?"

And mumbling bitterly "Hi, Cartman..." means "You don't think this is killing me either?"

Sadly, today is the latter but after a while he starts to lighten up a bit, kicking me under the table affectionately and ripping on me a little bit. Sometimes I wonder if, in my absence, he's just gone ahead and told Stan and Kenny everything.

Stan is always asking me how I am, what's it like here, do I think I'm making any sort of improvement and I give him quick, painless answers to spare myself overthinking this whole situation later on. I'm always reminded of the night when he ran his finger nervously along my scar and tried to block out my trip to the hospital. That night was the calm before the storm, I suppose.

Kenny asks me are there any hot chicks here and have I fucked any of them yet. Clearly Kenny has no idea about Cartman and I. But I still play along, I say that yes, there are some hot girls here (the girl who wore a lot of bracelets and looked like Bebe comes to mind) but no, I am not allow to fuck any of them.

I think it's nicer to talk about town, their lives, school and all the news I need to catch up on. Those kind of conversations seem to make more sense, it helps me pretend that we're just hanging out, with no complications or arrogant fucking wristbands.

Stan said he's already sent three college applications out, though his parents would prefer if he stayed in Colorado, preferably Denver, since it's only an hour drive. But Stan said that the colleges he applied to were fairly close, even if two of them are out of state, so he doesn't know what they're getting all pissy about. Apparently, the school which is the furthest away is in California, which Stan said would be his first choice.

They told me about this party they had gone to at Clyde's house a couple of weeks ago. Kenny and Cartman claimed it was awesome because there was these two girls from out of town that showed up and spent the whole night grinding on each other, feeling each others tits and sticking their tongues down each other's throats. Stan claimed that the whole thing was "clearly staged, they knew what they were doing" and that they were both looking around to see if anybody was paying any attention to them. Cartman was quick to hit back and defend this clearly cherished moment, saying "How the fuck did you know, Stan? You were too busy trying to get Wendy out of her bra and panties! Every time I saw you, she was fucking teasing you and sitting on your lap looking all wholesome. While you were staring at her like the little bitch that you are and trying to control a boner!". At this point, Stan was biting his lip, blushing like crazy, Kenny was laughing and messing Stan's hair while I tried to not do a spit take of my strawberry milkshake (which I had bought during the first couple of minutes of being in here, you know, to calm my nerves, Frank.)

"It's true, dude!" Kenny turns to me and says, wiping his eyes and grinning smugly "They were drinking fucking _Daiquiris!_ Man, you should've seen it."

"Yeah!" Cartman laughs, nudging Stan and continuing "Seriously dude, you looked like such a prick!"

"Stan, are you still whipped after all this time?" I ask, raising an eyebrow and trying to contain my laughter.

"Yep. And it's getting worse." Kenny replies.

We debated the "Is Stan whipped?" issue for a while. We all knew the answer was yes, even Stan. Still it's funny to rip on him and Wendy's relationship. Even if we're all a little jealous that Stan actually is maintaining a physical relationship with seemingly little problems... you know, besides the fact that Stan is totally under Wendy's thumb. Plus, it's fun to laugh about the many Stan and Wendy moments that have happened over the years. Finally, Stan sighed and said "Okay. It's possible that I'm a little whipped." This was met by raucous applause and a stern look from the very cranky cafeteria lady.

Kenny revealed that he hooked up with Bebe and Red at Clyde's party (not at the same time, though threesomes and that type of thing aren't unusual for Kenny) and also that Token went into Clyde's room with Heidi and that Clyde almost had a chance with Powder but he threw up and passed out. Which, obviously, is not good. Cartman said that him and Kenny were on a mission to get Butters wasted by challenging him to endless shot contests. At the end of the night Butters had thrown up in a vase, over the stairs and in the kitchen sink, had lost a sneaker and was standing on Clyde's kitchen table singing "If You Leave Me Now." Kenny said that it was; "Fucking beautiful. I mean, I was kinda drunk and well, Butters was totally messed up and we were all pretty drunk but it was awesome because everybody was laughing and swaying and when he finished everybody applauded him.". The guys agreed it was pretty cool, Cartman filmed it and showed it to me and to be honest... It's impressive. You know, for a guy who's so drunk that you could smell the tequila just by looking at him. "Now that wasn't staged" Stan pointed out.

Apart from the party, we talked about how they're finally turning Whistlin' Willy's Pizza into an actual Pizza Hut. Which, in Cartman's opinion, is long overdue. We also ripped on the fact that Cartman's mom has yet another boyfriend, called Steve who Cartman hates. Apparently he's an "arrogant douchebag who thinks he's hot shit." Kenny is still determined that he'll screw Cartman's mom one day, that way he can cross "MILF" and "Cougar" off his list, you know, kill two birds with one stone. Cartman said that's going to happen over his dead body, but Kenny said that Cartman's mom totally wants him. It's true, she flirts with all of us, but there's this weird, inappropriate chemistry with Cartman's mom and Kenny... I guess it's because Kenny is gorgeous and is so effortlessly brilliant at flirting. Plus, Cartman's mom is one of the sluttiest women I know and I suspect she's realising that it's okay to want to have sex with her son's friends since we're not kids anymore. In a way, her and Kenny would make a perfect, albeit slightly disturbing couple. I remember once that Kenny said that in ten years, if he's lucky, he could be Cartman's step dad. The look on Cartman's face was priceless, he punched Kenny and gave him a very nasty black eye, that lingered for a long time.

I feel kind of sorry for Cartman though, so I brush his leg with my foot under the table. When I've caught his attention we share one of those secret, soft smiles that always makes both of us feel a little better.

School is apparently getting easier as graduation and summer looms. Everyone's starting to get sentimental about leaving and a part of me wants to be home by summer, just so I can be apart of it all. I doubt that I will be. Stan says that him, Cartman and Kenny are killing time ditching "pointless" classes by wandering around town, taking the bus into Denver, going to Sizzler or lying in the middle of the football field. I asked them about the football field thing (because that seemed kind of strange to me) and Kenny says it's relaxing, especially when you're stoned.

Speaking of football, our school team is currently doing shit.

My 90 minutes is up and we dejectedly say our goodbyes. It never fails to amaze me that after all this time, it still hurts to walk away. Emotions never die out, they just burn and dig themselves out of the ashes, now matter how thick...

But before I leave, I feel like I should drop a bombshell on them. And I suppose on you too, Frank.

I've been talking about it with my therapist for a while and he thinks it would be good if I visited home for a few days. But I've still got to wait a couple of weeks.

When I told the guys Kenny and Stan hugged me and said how great that was, and if I could, call them to let them know exactly when I'm leaving. Cartman didn't hug me however, I didn't expect him to, but I miss how he holds me. I miss resting my head on his shoulder and how he always twirls his fingers around my curls. Instead, he smiles this particular smile that I've only seen a handful of times. It's usually saved for special occasions, like when him and Kenny are laughing about something completely ridiculous, or when he's teasing somebody or when him and I were together and we were joking around in his room. It was briefly on his face after we had sex and we were lying next to each other, still reeling and breathing heavily.

But that smile was good enough. Because I knew it was all meant for me.

So yeah, I guess I've got something to look forward to, huh, Frank?

Kyle

~x~

Dear Frank

Sorry I haven't wrote you in a while, these past couple of weeks have been pretty hectic, but you may be interested to know that I'm writing to you from my own bed! Yeah, my actual bed in South Park. It feels so bizarre, like I shouldn't belong here but somehow I do. Everything is so familiar, these streets, these people, these trees and mountains. The house hasn't changed in the slightest and my room is just the way I left it. It's like my parents preserved my memory, there was always this niggling, malignant thought in the back of my head that I would never come back here. It's ridiculous I know and I tried to remind myself of that, but when you're at your most desperate and hopeless you start to believe everything. It's kind of like this one neurological disorder I read about once, where basically you never forget things, you remember every trivial, mundane second of your life as well as those treasured, special things that somehow become eternal. It may sound cool to remember everything that's happened, but what about the painful times, the scary times, the lonely times? Imagine being able to easily remember every blood-curdling second of a traumatic event? It's horrible. I guess I've got a form of that disease, except I don't remember everything, I believe in everything.

Well, anyway, I've got four days here before I have to go back to the hospital. And I intend to make my visit count. My parents picked me up at 2 O'clock yesterday afternoon and Ike was in the car too. I haven't seen him for so long, that I felt nauseous at the sight of him, it all felt too good to be true and I'm hoping that this sickening feeling of happiness lasts. It's only an hour from here to South Park, which seems so bizarre.. That hospital feels like it's own clinical universe and everything on the outside has been erased, reality flutters by and briefly shows itself.

I have to admit Frank, when I saw the sign for South Park and when we drove through the Main Street, I got a little choked up. I didn't let it show of course, I just stared out the window, looking at the buildings and the evergreens and how thick the sidewalks were with snow and I thanked God I was home again.

When I got home it felt like we were a real family again, I didn't want to think about what it's like without me. I hope that their fine, even though I'm terrified that soon I'll be forgotten and unwanted but I'd hate for them to be struggiling. That would make me feel even more guilty. My mom insisted that we have this huge ass lunch since I was going out with Stan, Kenny and Cartman later so I wouldn't be here for dinner. We tried to avoid the hospital as much as possible in our conversation, which was surprisingly easy. Afterward, Ike and I played video games like old times and he told me about school and his friends and how well his hockey team is doing.

At eight, I met up with the guys at Starks Pond but nothing special happened. Things were the way they were supposed to be, hanging out, drinking, talking about stupid shit... Like old times. The guys did say how much they missed me though and as the evening progressed and we all got drunker, the confessions were much more slurred and heartfelt. Stan said that everything was weird and different without me around, he had tears in his eyes and I couldn't help but burst out laughing. But I squeezed his hand and smiled at him to let him know that I felt the same way and that I missed him so much. I've missed everything so much Frank and it's not until you come home that you realize the extent of it all.

Also, Cartman stayed over last night, secretly of course. It was 2:30 when we came home and we silently kissed each other as we went to my room, fumbling in the dark in each other's grip. God, I've fucking missed him Frank, I've needed to kiss him and hold him so badly. I didn't tell him that though, I thought it would be best if we left it unspoken. We felt it though, in our desperate kisses, in our tentative embrace. We didn't have sex last night, but we did, you know, stuff... Which is fine, because I've been practically under house arrest for the past couple of months so any form of action is happily welcomed.

As we were falling asleep, I kissed his neck and murmured against his skin "I love you". I needed to say it, it's one of the many things that eats away at me. I hate how I was too proud to tell him that more often. He mumbled back that he loved me too, in his half-asleep state, he kissed my curls and held me tighter.

But it's now eleven O'clock, Cartman left an hour ago. But I want to try and get another hours sleep. I just felt like writing this letter to you Frank, because I feel like you take all my angsty, depressing bullshit and you would maybe like to see me rather happy for a change. Maybe I'll keep this letter and take it back with me, so I can read it when I'm having a rough day and remind myself that I can be content with some things. That I have a life outside this haze of confusion and despair.

Maybe I'll show Clare... As if. I fucking hate that bitch.

Kyle

P.S. Last night Kenny insisted that we go on a road trip before graduation, but I can hardly see that happening. Still, I like to humor his drunken ideas.

~x~

Dear Frank

Those four days have come and gone. But I don't think they did as much good as my therapist thought they would, I knew that it wasn't going to make a big difference. But I thought it would be more noticeable, you know? That I'd feel slightly better. But I feel like nothing. I don't know whether that's a good or bad thing.

And I'm not exaggerating, ever since I've arrived I've felt numb, soulless, just as worn out and resigned as the other people I see roaming the halls. Maybe it's my medication, but I have a nagging suspicion that it's more than that. I feel like the people I prayed I would never become. They're ghosts who haunt me and show me an ugly truth. These are the kids who don't talk to anyone, they don't even muster a mumble. They only talk unless they're forced to talk and it's like pulling teeth when their discordant, sad words fall lazily from their grey lips. They're the type of kids you feel sorry for, because they're done. Literally _done_. They've reached the end, the bottom of the barrel, I can't see how they can pull themselves out of the dark and fight for any scrap of light they can... Maybe they don't want to, maybe, sadly, they've lost strength. Maybe they've given up hope. I mean, everybody gets that way from time to time, I feel like that most of the time anyway... But if that's all there was to me, then I'd have to find a way to end it all. I guess it all depends what type of person you are.

But then there's the other kids, the ones who are deliriously happy, with a poisonous zeal in their eyes, who have too many demons to exorcize. The ones who fill the empty, eerie halls with screams, cries and cackles. Honestly Frank, a part of me wants to know what's going on in their heads, what intangible, invisible force carelessly flips a switch in their tangled minds to make them break down, to make them paranoid, delusional and ridden with fright. Because I wonder who controls me, I wonder who I handed myself over to in sickening, silent fear. All I know is that whoever's making my life hell, I fucking hate them. And I would do anything to wake up one day and have complete knowledge that they're dead and gone. But, who am I kidding, Frank? That's not gonna happen anytime soon... The fact of the matter is, no one is going to come out of here cured, healed and seeing the world through a beautiful, rainbow perspective. You have to be really fucking naive to believe that.

I'm going to come out of here as a survivor. Just like everybody else who get's given a number, a wristband, an assigned counselor and prescriptions to those addictive little bastards who you both scorn and cling to. I'm going to come out of here with some thin comfort that I can handle myself better. I'll come out of here with a glimmer of hope. I'll come out of here with leaflets, phone numbers, medicine and pearls of advice that have managed to string themselves around the barbed wire in my loose head. I haven't got rid of the demons, the monsters and the sirens, they're not rotting or wasting away. They're not singed or broken or torn apart. They're just a little battered and bruised, that's all. But at least, when they suddenly decide that they're ready to give my bed away, I'll hopefully have the weapons that will give me a good chance of extinguishing the monsters. Not that they won't expire, they'll simply rise, phoenixes... the lot of them.

But the memory of this place will linger like suffocating fumes from a bonfire. And my stay will become a written off period of time, a break in my history, a stuttering, nervous story and a part of my life that I'll feel anxious telling people about. Nothing but baggage, nothing but a stigma that close minded people will judge me by, or pity me for. It'll be written all over my face I suppose. Every unscrewed, paranoid crease in my worn out face.

Hell, Frank, I think I just felt a twinge of fear. At least that's something, right?

Kyle

~x~

Dear Frank

Summer is slowly but surely starting to show itself.

My parents came to visit a couple of days ago and my mom said that she was talking to Stan's mom the night before, and how much Stanley would love it if Kyle could come to graduation. I'd love to go too, just to see everyone again and maybe say my goodbyes, after all, I don't know what people's plans are. They could go to college in another state and I may never see them again. Which reminds me, when the guys come and visit I need to ask them about colleges. I have no idea what the fuck I'm going to do, I try not to think about it too much Frank, but I'm kind of foolishly hoping that things will work out if I try to make things happen. It may sound like a cliche but it's true.

Plus, I would love to see Cartman again. Especially on a night like graduation, it's really important, even though he would never admit it and I want to share that experience with him... When I went home to visit he told me had applied to four colleges. I don't think he'll have any problems, he's actually smart (when he puts the effort it into studying) and he did have really good grades. I remember during the first month I came here, I asked could my parents bring over any homework I had from school. The nurses and my parents were hesitant at first, because they wanted me to focus on therapy and all that stuff, but I told them that I needed something else to do as well. Honestly, I just wanted to feel normal again, I just wanted something to distract me from the reality of my situation. Soon, as my medication was increased, my routine started to alter according to my hospital timetable and things started to feel like they were becoming more intense, I gave up on studying. Things didn't make sense to me anymore and I got frustrated and angry easily, I'd rip all the paper up or write really bizarre notes on the side of my books. I'd write things that had been accumulating in the darkest corners of my subconscious for months, but seeing them on paper felt unnerving. I didn't like who I was becoming.

So I may try and ask my therapist and my doctor can I pretty please with sugar on top go to graduation. I'm sure they'll let me, I haven't had any recent episodes and if my parents are okay with it (which I think they are) then we're all good...

Before I forget, I need to tell you what happened in group therapy the other day. Because it's about you.

Clare asked us if any of us were still writing letters. I was the only one who raised my hand, which kind of surprised me. And by the way she raised her eyebrows, Clare was kinda surprised too. Not that people have stopped writing, just the fact that I was the one who raised my hand. Usually I'm the least co-operative with her lame ass ideas.

Anyway, she asked us to make a list of the people we're most thankful for and why. I think that maybe she was trying to boost her ego a little bit, in the vain hope that somebody would write down that they were thankful for her. She gets off on that kind of stuff...

On the list, I wrote that I was thankful for my parents, for being supportive (even if they're good intentions go bad) and for staying strong.

I wrote that I was thankful for Stan and Kenny, for being there for me, for dealing with my moodswings and episodes all these years and visiting me even if this has got to be pretty hard for them.

I wrote that I was thankful for Cartman (I have to admit Frank, I was blushing like crazy and trying my hardest to control a goofy smile while I wrote this) for giving me hope, making me incredibly happy and making me feel wanted.

And I thanked you Frank. For making this place a little less lonely, for giving me a voice when I felt like silently crying and giving up. For making me realize that I'm not as hopeless and weak as I've convinced myself I am and well... for not judging me. For letting me tell you everything.

Thanks for listening, Frank.

You'll always be eternal.

Kyle


End file.
